I wait for Malia in the car as I watch her walk around toward the backyard. I give her the space she needs to try to resolve this on her own, but after a few minutes, I hear voices rising. I step out of the car and follow the same path she took.
— Let go of my daughter right now.
I hear Malia's voice, strained and sharp, and I quicken my pace toward the sound.
— You don't tell me what to do, and certainly not with this little girl. You're a terrible mother—you shouldn't even be here.
As I get closer, I recognize the voice, and it surprises me.
I reach the backyard and see a man gripping Malia by the arms, shoving her violently. I move quickly, pulling his hands away from her.
— Let go of me, Henrique! Malia shouts, and tension immediately tightens in my chest, anger rising.
— Take your hands off her, or you'll be sleeping in a cell tonight, I say, drawing everyone's attention. Silence falls for a moment.
Questions and accusations of trespassing start flying, along with insults directed at Malia. A cold anger spreads through me, but I hold it back, forcing myself to stay calm instead of reacting harshly in front of her.
— What happened, Malia?
— They won't let me take her, she says, and I can see how shaken and afraid she is.
— I see, I reply, choosing my words carefully.
— Of course I'm not letting a criminal take my daughter. So whoever you are, take this slut away from my house and my child, Malia's ex-husband says.
I resist the urge to smile at the violent thoughts that immediately come to mind.
I ask Malia to go back to the car—I'll handle this. I wait in silence until she leaves, and only then do I allow myself to speak.
— What do you think you're doing here, Amanda? I ask the girl standing there in a revealing bikini.
— I'm just visiting my boyfriend, she says, avoiding my eyes.
— How do you know each other? the ex-husband asks, and I wonder if he's the boyfriend. — Who is this man, Amanda? An ex?
— Stop talking nonsense, I say, looking at her. — Go get dressed and go home. I'm not in the mood.
— I'll get my things, she says, turning quickly, but the man in front of me grabs her arm, stopping her.
— Amanda! he calls, demanding an explanation.
I watch her closely, waiting to see what she'll do.
— He's my uncle, love. We don't want to make him angry, she says.
I smile.
Better that way.
— Your uncle? So that's why he came? he says, turning to me and extending his hand. — Nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances.
— I told you to stop with the nonsense. I'm not here because of her. But since I'm here... you do know how old she is, don't you? I ask, looking at the man who doesn't seem younger than thirty.
— I'm aware of Amanda's age, and I can assure you our relationship is very respectful, he says.
I laugh.
— Of course. Sleeping with my sixteen-year-old niece behind her family's back is a great way to show respect, I say, losing a bit of patience.
— She's very mature for her age. Otherwise, we wouldn't be involved, he insists.
That doesn't work on me.
— Having the body of a twenty-five-year-old doesn't make her mature, I say, cutting the subject short. — Why are you still here, Amanda? Go home. When I get back from my trip, we'll talk.
She doesn't argue. She simply turns and disappears into the house despite his protests.
I look toward the pool area and spot a few chairs. I grab one, drag it closer to the idiot, and sit down.
— Go inside and get clothes for the girl. She's going on a trip with her mother, I say, already expecting him to comply.
— What? Henrique—the colossal idiot—asks. — Are you really with that woman? What are you to her? She has no money. Whatever this is, she can't pay you. If you're a lawyer, forget it. That bitch isn't taking my daughter anywhere.
— Insult my fiancée again, and I won't be able to restrain myself, I say.
— Your fiancée? Oh my God, she really is a gold digger. Went after a millionaire this time, the woman says.
I smile.
— Multimillionaire. And how exactly do you know the size of my fortune? I ask.
This time, everyone falls silent.
— I see. A naive rich girl. Amanda really is an easy target. You should do your homework, Henrique.
— Get out of my house, he says, turning his back on me.
At that moment, my phone rings, but he's the only one who moves toward the house, while his parents remain staring at me.
— Wait a moment. We still need to talk about this mortgaged house, I say.
He stops immediately, turning to look at me. His parents' eyes widen.
I answer the phone and put it on speaker.
— Did you get it? I ask.
— Yes, sir. I've just sent it to your email, my lawyer replies.
— Thank you. I might need you later for a few arrests or lawsuits. It all depends on my mood this weekend, I say before hanging up.
— Now, back to our conversation. If you don't even have a place to live, how exactly are you going to raise a child? I ask. — Malia would gain custody much faster if the father were homeless.
— I don't know how you found out about the mortgage, but we'll pay it. And it's good to know my information is out there—I'll sue the bank for this, Henrique says.
I laugh.
— Go ahead. I'd love to win a case—especially against you. If you didn't know, the bank owner has no restrictions when it comes to his clients' debts, Mr. Henrique Santana. Now, please, the girl's clothes.
— I don't care if you own the bank. I have a debt, and I'm only two payments behind. And as for my daughter, she's not leaving the city without my permission.
— Good thing you said that. And good thing I came prepared, I say, opening my email and pulling up the document I need. — I already got a judge's authorization. I don't need yours.
I hand him the phone, but he barely glances at it.
— That's fake. That woman is a criminal. You think I'd trust anything that comes from her?
I smile.
— I'm not stupid, Mr. Santana. So drop the act—you're not the only one here who knows how to put on a show, I say quietly. — Where's the girl's room?
I walk through the yard and into the house. It's clean, spotless. Either they're very hygienic, or they cleaned everything for that spoiled, rich little girl.
I head upstairs, searching for the child's room.
When I find it, I walk in and grab a bag, starting to pack some of her clothes.
When we get married, I'll have Malia set up a proper room for her daughter—everything she deserves. Not that her clothes are bad, but nothing compares to what I can provide.
— Get out of our house. I'm calling the police, Henrique's mother says as she enters the room.
— Then why haven't you called yet? If you had, this would already be easier for me, and I'd be gone with the girl by now, I reply, my patience thinning.
— You're not taking my daughter anywhere! Henrique repeats, now standing beside me.
— I'm not asking. But since I'd like to keep things pleasant while I leave with her, I can forget about your overdue payments—for now, Mr. Santana, I say.
He blinks.
— And you can do that?
— I own the bank. I could erase your entire debt if I wanted to, I say, looking at him as I zip the bag. — Which I don't.
— Now give me the girl.
I take her from his arms before he can even react. He doesn't move a muscle to stop me.
I smile. If I'd known two missed payments were enough to make him hand her over, I would've started there.
Still, the ease with which he lets her go doesn't go unnoticed. He's handing his daughter to a stranger—even if her mother is waiting outside.
I don't wait for anything else. I walk out of the house.
— Come on, sweetheart. Your mom is waiting for you, I whisper to her.
She smiles brightly, playing with the collar of my shirt.
— If anything happens to my daughter, or if she tries to run off with Sofia, you'll pay for it, Henrique shouts from the front of the house.
I ignore the pathetic attempt at intimidation.
— Don't try to threaten me. And don't talk about consequences when you can't even handle your own. And understand this: from now on, Malia will be spending much more time with her daughter.
— But—
— Enough. This isn't a negotiation. I've made my decision. That's how it's going to be. Don't even think about opposing me.
— Who do you think you are?
This time, I let my smile show.
— Someone very influential and very rich—someone who can ruin your life. So don't test my patience.
— Son, let's not argue here. I've already called the police. They're on their way. Even if you leave now, you won't get far, Victoria says.
— Then good afternoon. See you around, I reply.
— Take her, Malia. We'll buy a car seat on the way.
She looks at me, confused and overwhelmed, but takes her daughter immediately.
I walk around the car and give instructions for Edgar to stay and deal with the police.
Inside the car, the scene is something else entirely.
Malia looks at her daughter like she's a treasure—like none of this is real. Tears overflow from her eyes.
— Thank you, Eduardo. I don't even know how to thank you.
— You don't have to thank me, I say, firm. — You are my woman now. And just like me, everyone will treat you that way.
From now on, Malia is untouchable.
And until I clear her name—which I haven't told her yet I intend to do—no matter what happened, everyone will respect her.
And no one will dare challenge the new Mrs. Lecler.